


A Memoir of Cornfields

by martina_fiore



Series: Age Shall Not Weary Them Ver 1. [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brothers America & Canada (Hetalia), Gen, Happiness is deserved, Historical, Historical Hetalia, M/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2020-03-17 19:36:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18971677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/martina_fiore/pseuds/martina_fiore
Summary: For peace he offers a memoir of his cornfields. This is a short story of Alfred F. Jones, a farmer turned soldier during WWII and his brother Matthew Williams.(If you look close enough there is the USUK)





	1. In My Departure

**Author's Note:**

> I might add more to the story later. Thanks for reading!  
> I did add more, I changed the ending completely. :DDDD

 

Rows on rows they lay, the crosses or headstones of the deceased men and women who rest eternally under the sacred ground. On a field like no others was where they died and when they were brought back, faceless and unnamed in their passings unless recognized by comrades, below another field they were buried. The earth entrenched their beds and above them is life that their death has ignited, hewn is a new world woven by lanes to roads leading home. This is a memoir of cornfields.

 

God bless the land, God bless the free and may God bless all those memories meant to be.

 

All those corn stalks stifle the sun stark against all other fields as they tower above his head, their lush foliate brushed at his hand becoming a sea of woven movements too complicated for him to follow. Those stalks had their own dance and advise him of the power of nature, even in the safe confines of his cornfield. Yielding earth made his footprints manifest in a journey that had no beginning nor an end, he is lost in the supple crop that had been his life and the life of his family generations earlier. It was not exactly his own field nor did he borne it as the fruits of his labour, rather his inheritance, but they say a man should know his feed just as a man should know his worth. Alfred F. Jones was worth a field of corn. Yes as ridiculous as it sounds, that field was his life and no one should laugh at such a humble treasure. As a heart can be treasured so can be a homeland.

 

“Alfred, you look ridiculous.” Of course Matthew was always by Alfred’s side although rarely physically since Matthew usually reside with their uncle in Canada however he was here to visit for a few months, their brotherly jest was familiar to Alfred as the fields were.

“What do you mean Mattie? Isn’t the sun so beautiful today?” Alfred felt different that day, he was weighed down by something that could not be described but it was heavier and smothering than a cloudy sky.

“That’s something I would say...You didn’t hit your head today did you?” Matthew brushed pass a dandelion and Alfred’s eyes caught on to the minute seeds as the wind rushed to carry them away. Perhaps to the war on the other side of the world. Smaller and smaller, quietly...quietly.

Alfred shrugged, he wasn’t sure any more, and he wasn’t sure why he had become this way. His demeanour diminished in the months following the attack on Pearl Harbour, and ringing echoes of plane motors sputtered beyond the defense in his mind. He wasn’t even present at the attack only heard the panic over the radio.

“I want to join the war. I’m going to join soon.” Alfred whispered moving further into the chaotic jumble of growing shoots, it was a secret that only the cornstalks and Matthew should know. Matthew hesitated in his movements and stood where Alfred was moments earlier, it was his turn to take in the ballad of nature and the sun before confronting what was set in front of him.

Sometimes in theiryouth Alfred and Matthew joked about wanting to die young, wanting to live when they wanted to. To die before they become crippled and to stop slowly fading away. Their coffins would be filled with the sweetest roses and wild ivy will climb our gravestones before this war was over. Their heads rolling on the floors, their blood cooking in the fields where corn should be growing; unused fertilizer for the new generations who were born to suffer. The death of the young ones make them shed the most tears. But in war, time moves too quickly to mourn, every life lost to whims of violence was an etching of scars in their history. Alfred understood this, but the desire to do something overcame his sensibility.

“I knew that was coming...so I took the liberty to apply a few days ago.”

“What?! No way Mattie! That’s unfair!” Alfred’s expression featured the look exaggerated horror, no doubt due to the surprise that he wasn’t first this time. Perhaps the old Alfred never left, only matured.

“It’s okay Alfred, they didn’t accept me due my current health,” Matthew patted Alfred’s back and began leading his brother back to the house, “We should talk to mom and dad about this...about you going and stuff.”

Alfred nodded ready to defend his decision if needs be.

Matthew nudged his shoulder and forced Alfred to look at him, "Are you going to tell Amelia?"

"....No, she's going to be sad."

"Obviously you cabbage, but you need to tell her!"

"I think it's better if she does not know or she'll neck me and then she and her Russian boyfriend will see me off with a garden's worth of sunflowers!...so no, thanks."

"You're ridiculous-"

"I'll write to her after I leave..."

They rounded the dusty paths as two bluebirds chirped looking at the brothers from the fence post. Their parent’s house loomed, an unwavering silhouette proud against the auburn sky, the wooden roof chipped but holding strong after a century’s service. They trudged up the low staircase and hesitated at the verandah, Alfred took one final glimpse at his cornfield to the right of the house and at the bluebirds pecking at dried insects.

The door opened, barely disturbing the peaceful quiet of the farm.

The long reaching rosaries were tucked under their shirt collars and hanging against their bare skin.  Alfred’s own rosary was one made from the same stone but a clear polish reflected against a white light would diffuse into variegation of shades, Alfred suspected that Matthew only wore the rosary because it brought him closer to Europe, his heart belongs to France in the way he murmurs ‘ _Mignonne allons voir si la rose’_ instead of reciting American pledge of allegiance. Alfred's adorned cross with flaky rust was a testament to its age unlike his own which was only slightly speckled with age, a sign that he did not touch it often.

Perhaps, Alfred thought, Matthew’s will to fight in this war was stronger than his own.

"I'm going, mom."

He didn't look at his father and his father took off his thin spectacle. 

His mother pulled away her apron and rubbed her eyes tiredly.

Matthew went to put on the kettle, sensing that they could all use something warm to fill the void Alfred had just dug up.

It didn’t take long for his parents to cave in to Alfred’s request, Matthew laughed at his relief heartily.

“We understand your decision Alfred, your mother and I...we are more than proud of you, Alfred,” Mr Jones held back the tears threatening to overcome his stoic façade. He loved both his sons dearly and equally, if they both want to leave then he would support them, but Mrs Jones was glad that at least one son was denied from service.

 

_Matthew drove Alfred to the train station a week after they accepted his enlistment, all of his belongings a small bag and a large bouquet of sunflowers in his arms as he began on a new journey._

_"Goodbye Matthew!"_


	2. In Our Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. Also I suggest for you to read 'There is no red on the fields today' before this story.  
> Ralph Johnson is Australia and Abel van Janssen is Netherlands.
> 
> Edit!! I took the liberty to edit this and to change the ending!!

Everyone was panicking, some in their silence and others in their vocal way to let the world know how upset they were about the war. No matter how you protest, you’re mocked; for being too intrusive or not speaking up loud enough, the middle ground was no longer a safe haven but a cult of denial. Each year the harvest season dwindled, the heat was scathing and prolonged, the sky no longer golden but grey burned through with a sickly orange. Even though they were nowhere near the war, the weather was a pathetic fallacy of the chaos rampant oversea and Alfred's parents stood on the verandah waiting for their sons to return.

In a letter delivered back to his brother, Matthew, written in the midst of a prolonged mission in the Pacific he knew that there was a chance he would not make it back. Alfred would not be able to cry on his brother’s shoulder when he returned from the war or receive his parent’s blessings on his wedding, it was too much to hope for in all the sufferings as they survived for yet another day.

So Alfred wrote his letter and sent it the next time they docked;

20th Feb 1945

_„Dear Matthew, I would be lying if I said that conditions here is great but I do hope all is going well back at home. You’d better still be looking after my lovely cornfields, the only prize worthy for my hands! Anyway… I didn’t want to make this a depressing letter as this might be the last one I send for a while, we will be at sea for a long time after this leave, but I have no choice._

_Matthew... I’m scared, the world does not exist in the ocean. There is nothing for miles and the only life here are those next to me. We know nothing of the war in  Europe or of our sister ship. The last engagement saw a Japanese ship exploding in all directions, fires blazing through metal crackling the paint and the stench was awful. The Japanese soldiers jumped into the ocean willing to die rather than be captured. I lost my friend during one of battles and another  due to dysentery. One day when I return I’ll tell you all about it (can’t say much in letters like these). I promise Matthew. Please send my regards to mom and dad, I love you all very much!_

_From your brother,_

_Alfred“_

What Alfred did not know was that Matthew finally joined the war many months earlier after his health improved and was serving in Europe as a paratrooper. Matthew’s letters never reached Alfred and Alfred’s letter never entered the hands of his brother. Their letters were redirected to their parents when their status was corrected to missing in action‘. After the war their status became killed in action‘; Matthew’s body was never located but his subordinates buried his helmet in _Nederrijn_ , only a few days before the official liberation of the Netherlands and a man named Abel van Janssen returned Matthew’s belongings to his parent in an unadorned package, including his medal and wallet containing the pressed red tulip.

Alfred’s ship was sunk by two Kamikaze aircraft as it was bounded for Okinawa on 28 May 1945, his body could not be recovered and this became the fate of the many of the deceased sailors.

Abel visited Matthew’s parents as soon as planes were accessible, wanting to share their sorrow at the loss of both brothers. Abel spoke fondly of Matthew over letters, the bouquet of tulips he managed to send sat in a vase before Mrs Jones who looked through Matthew's wallet, looking for any more photos of her son, _"I remembered when he marched into my town along with his detachment, the people was all smiles waving tulips and offering it to the soldiers. Your son sought no rewards for his bravery in freeing my town, what he said stuck with me forever though, when I asked how he remembered me he said „I remembered all their faces as they smiled at me and the boys. If there’s anything I get out of this war, the smiles of your people were payments to last a lifetime.“ There is no kinder words in such painful circumstances.“_ Abel sent them a copy of the photograph he captured of Matthew in the fields; Matthew’s hands were outstretched to feel the crops as if it reminded him of another field back at home.

Their parents held these stories close to their heart and awaited the news of Alfred from anyone who may have known him. Their grace arrived in a letter from an Australian soldier named Ralph who knew Alfred when they met in the spring of 1943 at a Sydney bar. Enclosed was several photos they took together, the war nowhere present in these joyous photos that showed Ralph, Alfred and another man with thick eyebrows cajoling in the Sydney streets, drinking to their heart's content. Ralph’s letter began with his condolences;

16th February 1946

_„Dear Mr and Mrs Jones, I had the pleasure of befriending your son who was the most wonderful man, he was surprisingly optimistic for the war… I think he would have rejoiced when the war was over. I offer my deepest condolences and hope that these photos grant you some solace. We spent most of our leave together in bars and dancing, Alfred was a gentleman at all times and the ladies loved him. Arthur Kirkland, the one with thick eyebrows also send words of regret, I believe he has something of Alfred that he would like to return to you. There is nothing worse than losing your son and I cannot possibly feel the pain you are enduring at this moment, I hope that God’s blessings will be upon you for the future._

_Yours sincerely, Ralph Johnson.“_

They are still missing in action. Or so Mrs Jones told herself.


	3. In Our Waking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is the ending we all deserve.

A boy awoke to a disagreeable stream of sunlight hitting his face and the smell of sweat festered flesh and coppery blood amalgamous with sharp antiseptic, it cleared his nose immediately, and he gagged sitting up hurriedly. There was a painful throb in his abdomen, and he groaned rubbing at the bandage covering what he supposed to be a wound, but the real pain came from his head as he took in the sight of rows of men lying beside him their beds extending into the clean white backdrop, he was far away from the front. Their uniforms and his coat hanging at the foot of the bed indicated that he was in the American army for some reason and he was in a war, he felt a crushing wave of déjà-vu invading his thoughts and causing him to twist around to look for someone familiar.

Matthew. His name was Matthew.

_Where?_

Something happened moments earlier, he could feel it, the tingling and the rush of adrenaline coursing through his body but there was nothing to remember and deeper still in his head it was a vast void.

An Airborne patch caught in a strip of sun, the man next to him looked strangely familiar as if Matthew was recalling him from a picture. Time was a puddle of incoherence for him.

 

A nurse’s white apron caught his eye, her clipped hair bounced airily reminding him of young leaves blowing in the wind and she spoke too softly in that familiar accent, “Mister Jones how are you feeling?”

His eyebrows furrowed and he looked at her, eyes darting wildly, “Jones?”

The nurse remained calm as soldiers forgetting their names were a common thing when they first came out of shock, “Sergeant Matthew Jones, do you remember what happened to you?”

“I’m sorry no I…”

“You were found near Nederrijn with multiple wounds, I assume you were ambushed and managed to walk away from your company rather than towards it.”

“But I’m Canadian.”

“No you’re not, you’ve been in the American army for a while now.”

“No I’m pretty sur-”

“Mr Jones, I think you need more rest.” The nurse tried to coax him back onto the pillow and hard bed but Matthew refused resorting to glare at her whilst swinging his legs over the side of the bed to stand up.

“What’s this on my stomach?”

“A bandage?”

“No. What’s underneath?”

“Another layer of bandage and gauze.” The nurse’s hand was held stiffly in front of her but Matthew felt she was humouring him by her barely upturned lips. This woman looked too familiar for comfort. 

“No I mean….qu'est-ce que c'est en anglais .... blessure ... une blessure à l'estomac _-_ Stomach wound!” 

“Ohh, you mean how you got stabbed by a chip of a grenade?”

“A chip?”

She shrugged nonchalantly, as if to say that it was the doctor’s analysis and instead of bantering further indicated for him to go back to sleep. The pillow did look comforting and the longer Matthew was out of his bed, the colder it was. He suddenly pointed at the Airborne soldier next to him, “What’s he here for?”

“Mortar shell. Apparently from Belgium or Antwerp.”

Matthew suddenly took the nurse’s hand and shook it joyfully, “101st Airborne, screaming eagle bastards. The Battle of the Bulge ...D-day hasn’t occurred yet,'' muttered to himself.

„Mister Jones, the war is over!“

On the other hand, Matthew was in a body of an idiot who registered himself in the American air force, this can only mean he had parents and a home elsewhere or even a girlfriend back in the States, he could not imagine how his parents would look like since he had not seen himself yet. 

“Oh my god, is it really?!”

“Sir please calm down!” The nurse grasped his hands tightly in hers and lowering herself to his level stared intently into his eyes, the bewitching blue gaze hardened and Matthew’s memories returned as the puddle of time and space refined into a continuous dripping of narrative. It was Amelia whose calloused hands he held, Amelia’s eyes that kept him grounded and sane in that moment, Amelia who looked the same as when she punched Alfred for steal her lunch at school, in 1927.

“ _Amelia!? What are you doing here?_ ”

The his loud exclaims had some of the other men who were half awake bristling in confusion and the amount of noise he was making did not help as the airborne soldier stirred listlessly.

“Shhh… Stop annoying the other patients, I’ll explain later”

“Ah, yes, wait ...where is Alfred?”

“.....um.” Amelia sighed and drew back from his face, her eyes casting to her apron as she fiddled with invisible dust, her hair casted fine shadows over her sunken pallor, how long has she endured this war with the rest of them? She looked as if she wanted to stand up and walk away from him.

“Amelia, please tell me I ...I have to know!”

“Alfred’s dead.” More silence.

“....You can’t stop there, who died? How?”

“Alfred…your parents received the news that his ship….sunk in the pacific. Technically he’s still missing in action but the war has been over for a while. When I was searching for you…. for anyone I knew from our town, for Ivan.”

Matthew did not know how to to respond to that except for, „You’ll find him soon, I know you will.“

 

“Do I look the same?” Matthew tried breaching the silence after a while.

“Just as ugly.”

“Wow, thanks Amelia. I say your hands gotten crustier!”

Amelia rolled her eyes and held his hands, bringing it to her lips only to kiss her own hands, she did not look at him as she went on to her next statement.

“You know, when I agreed to be a nurse I never expected to find you.”

“This was the happiest ending we’re going to get, He’s not going to be any nicer.”

They both knew who He was. The almighty, omnipotent, their supposed father. 

“I don’t believe in God,” Amelia declared.

“You said you were a gift from God.”

„I know that Ivan was God’s gift for me.“

Amelia’s tilted head and crooked smile had Matthew wondering why she wasn’t sad, perhaps she was hiding too well behind her mask and Ivan would prefer for her not to cry over him. Or maybe the fact the Amelia still hope that they will see each other someday soon, despite no knowing where or when but home is only one ocean away. Matthew, Amelia, Alfred and Ivan, all together again in their free homeland. He knew that was what Amelia was thinking, with the way she hummed a song that Ivan compose to tease Alfred, the way she held her hand close to her aprons and the smallest blood specks on those nurses’ whites- a recluse image in comparison to the Amelia that pulled him and Alfred out of a dry well that they got stuck in. They were both tired of fighting, of living. But the sun wasn’t so annoying now that Amelia was by his side.

 

_We were once bright flowers, now the whole field cowers._


	4. In Our Life

“I just wished...that we could all go home the same time.”

A knock at the door echoed hollowly. 

“Me too ... _hmm_ I have a feeling it’s about to get better,'' Amelia slapped her knees and pushed upwards suddenly, a new spring to her step and that crooked smile of hers bunched to one side, she was suddenly bursting with vigour.

“What do you mean?”

“Wait here for a bit.”

Matthew laid back on his pillows feeling defeated and apprehension on the verge of driving him insane but he waited out opting to study his hands which were burnt and still raw red from the pus drawn out while he slept. The dressing over it was light to keep dirt away but to also let the air in so that it can dry, Matthew l lifted his hands but they shook so frenziedly that he had to let them drop, his torn ligaments, a missing nail and battered face.

 

There were whisperings near the door, a fast-paced deep voice mixed with Amelia’s mellower accent, someone was coming to see him but Matthew was not sure if he wanted to see anyone. A tall shadow was casted in the sunlit way when Amelia open the door slightly, Matthew closed his eyes instead of satisfying his curiosity, Amelia returned with heels clicking rapidly against the wooden floorboards, she walked around to make sure all the soldiers were alright, Matthew watched as she came to a stop at the airborne soldier whose blanket she pulled higher and after brushing a strand of hair away from his face, she smiled and turned back to Matthew. 

“What’s his name?”

“Edmund.”

“He looks like that kid you pushed into a river back in school,“ Matthew winked at Amelia, she scowled at him briefly but her smile returned.

“Matthew, come with me.”

He shook his head, sinking further down into the bed, “I don’t think I can walk, Amelia”

“I know where your injuries are and you’ve been in a coma for almost a month. Get up.”

“Ugh… this is not how you treat a patient,” Matthew allowed himself to be gathered up by Amelia’s careful hand, her fingers dancing to not touch the burns on his back or the scars on his shoulder. Hoisting him up was the hardest, his weak legs would not let him stand until his knee caps cracked several times, the next step was still difficult his slippers couldn’t be lift anymore than a few centimetres at a time but Amelia did not stop encouraging him and the shadow on the verandah kept stirring. 

“You can do it!”

The next few steps was easier and on the last step Matthew was walking upright, no longer gripping tightly to Amelia’s hands so she stood back behind the door indicating with her head for him to continue.

Finally he stood in the sunlight, every second of it burned as if he was back on that meadow of tulips, invigorating, warm and colourful- that was the sun. The smell of citrus soap was welcomed after being stuck in the too clean hospital room, and the scent of fresh bread delivered by the baker’s son wafted over the hospital’s fence, making his stomach rumble thunderously. God did he miss the sun, Matthew’s eyes remained shut as he soaked in his missing companion, breathing in slowly, tears falling past the stitches on his jaw. He implored to the Earth that there would be no more war, so that he could bask in the sun without being overwhelmed with pain.

 

Then a shadow engulfed him and Matthew opened his eyes to the concerned face of a smartly dressed man, with the same scarf wrapped tightly around his neck a single red tulip in is hand. It took several minutes for Matthew to recognise him but there he was, but the light brown hair falling over his stark eyebrows fluttering like feathers, wide eyelids framing honey coloured orbs. Abel Janssen. 

The person whom he had been looking for in his dreams before he was knocked unconcious by the blast. 

It was shock and hopelessness that removed Abel completely from his mind since he awoke, Alfred too was gone when he was lying on the bed feeling sorry for himself. Last time he saw Abel was when the quiet dutch hills were basked in twilight and they shared a cup of tea before Matthew bid him goodbye, leaving to help the other companies liberate the Netherlands.

Matthew was screaming, the sound tearing at his throat when he was shot and then he opened his eyes to here. 

Here. 

Home.

“Matthew, don’t cry ….thanks, now I’m crying too!”

Matthew couldn’t speak and his throat closed up as tears will not stop streaming down his face no matter how hard he tried to stay strong, but once he realised that strength was being able to show his emotions he let it all out. All those weeks begging to see Abel again and finally the world has repaid him his due.

Abel took one step forward, hesitantly holding out his arms unsure if he should embrace Matthew and soon enough his indecision was determined for him when Matthew came crashing against him.

Matthew did not care if his body hurts, did not worry about his agonizing torn skin or weak legs. In the bespeckled light of a weak winter, in history’s most brutal war without anyone around except for Amelia he embraced Abel with all his might, a real promise never to let go. Abel could not return his embrace without hurting him so he pressed his forehead against Matthew and kissed both his cheeks tenderly allowing Matthew to lean against him.

Abel could feel Matthew’s ribs jutting from the loose pajamas, his frail arms lacking the firm muscles that pulled Abel through the fields to run into the sun light. His sickly pale skin bearing the brunt of burns and crude scars running through the once seamless pallor, Abel now stood almost two inch taller than Matthew, his medals gleaming brightly but his only victory was seeing Matthew again. It was the same Matthew he held when their hands brushed for the first time when they exchanged a tulip and a maple leaf, Matthew whose golden hair he caress and who was crying into his pristine uniform. 

 

“You’ll have to suffer this lifetime with me Abel,” Matthew broke out in sobs, smiling through tear stained fervour.

“Only if you let me.”

Abel's sun has finally returned to him.

Matthew will return to his parents.

Even if they never get to hear Alfred perform his rendition of ‚Swanee‘ again, or if Ivan did not swoop by her house with sunflowers in his arms, Amelia was happy that she was able to find one of her boys at least.

 

After the war the world was set on rebuilding itself with small acts of kindness, from friends and strangers alike.

Rows on rows their cross fortifies the truth, ingrained in the earth and under a sky so blue. This unruly world shook its head and fell into a slumber, to peace all chaos yield.

For peace, Alfred offers a memoir of his cornfields.


End file.
